T x R x I x P
by l0litapop
Summary: She's an addict. He's a "doctor". Jonathan Crane/OC. Warning: this gets gritty.


. . T . R . I . P . .

.1.

I didn't believe most of what they told us in grade school. "Don't talk to strangers." "Ask your parents' permission." "Please keep hands and feet inside the car at all times."

Alright, maybe I learned that last one at a theme park. Whatever. But my all-time favorite token of sage advice from Back in the Day: "don't do drugs." That one takes the cake. Because in between all the crap the Man told us, they managed to slip in one solid nugget of wisdom I should have actually hung on to. But I guess it's hard to know what to take to heart when you're young and reckless, right?

I was fifteen when I did acid for the first time. I don't remember too much other than my mind racing and sitting still like a Buddha. I mean I really thought I was meditating or something. Moving felt like disturbing the process. I reached a dangerous conclusion that day – "Everything is meaningless." My buddy said I was just repeating that over and over, all delirious like I'd just survived a car crash or something. I still kind of believe it, to be honest.

By seventeen, I'd done pretty much every psychedelic under the sun. Shrooms, DMT, E, some research chemicals, salvia, you name it. Sure, I'd dabbled in the harder stuff. Crack, once, but snorting it turned me off. Heroin, just a couple of times. The needle thing still freaks me out but that was something I'd do again, probably. There was also the pot-smoking thing that I can barely consider a drug anymore. No matter what I tried, though, nothing stacked up to acid. Nothing brought me the kind of satisfaction tripping did. It was a different world.

And God knows I'm bored of this one.

My apartment is on the outskirts of Gotham City. Home sweet home. I've literally never been more than five miles out of the concrete jungle and I wouldn't have it any other way. After a while you get comfy. Mommy got shot when I was six or something and after a few years living with the meth head down the hall I figured out how to manage on my own. Meth Head is still there, I think, but he's so far into his poison at this point I doubt he even remembers my name.

Which is Sprite, by the way. No, that's not on my birth certificate, but considering that thing's nowhere to be found in the train wreck that is my apartment I guess it doesn't matter.

It was three AM on a Tuesday when I first heard about Black Plague. I'd delivered a half-pound of shrooms to a dealer and was about to return the money to the Chechen.

Anyway, I was just walking up to a trap house down the street from my place to deliver the money and take my cut when I heard Chechen and his right-hand man, Hic, talking_ way_ too loud with the front door cracked open. Hic's basically this giant, somber sort of guy who freaks me out sometimes with how he always knows when there's a cop around the corner. Rumor has it the guy has a clean record. So do I, but I haven't been in the business since I learned to walk. I wouldn't say he's a legend, but he's going to be whenever he finally gets busted.

"They're calling it Black Plague. Got some psycho cooking it up. Calls himself Scarecrow." That was Hic.

"Tell him I'll buy a couple pounds. How much?"

"Dunno yet. Ain't gonna be cheap, though. Hot off the press." I let myself in.

"Hey. It's Gotham's finest. Can you boys be a little louder? I could barely hear you from my car."

"You don't have a car, you little wench." Hic didn't say anything, taking a puff off his cigar.

"Whatever. Here." I handed him the money and he counted it, taking out a hundred for me. Awesome.

"Get outta here. And take that damn battery out of your phone. I called and it rang. You're gonna get us tapped." I rolled my eyes and snapped the back of my piece-of-crap burner phone off in front of him, taking the battery out and putting it in my other pocket.

"There." I then handed him the hundred back. "Can I get a quarter sheet?" My acid supply had gone bad when I accidentally left it out of its airtight box last week. It was way beyond time to replenish the stash. The Chechen rolled his eyes and gestured to Hic, who took a little Visine bottle out of his pocket.

"All I got for you right now," he said, handing it to me. I shook it and checked out the liquid. Crystal clear.

"What the hell is this? Wash? What's it cut with?" This much wash could be anywhere between five and thirty hits. There was no way of knowing. A quarter sheet would be like ten to fifteen. "How do I know I'm not getting fleeced?"

"Take it or leave it, kid." I stared at him. I really hoped he could tell I was pissed, but I pocketed the bottle and grabbed a fifty from Chechen. Hic chuckled darkly to himself.

"What?"

"You just got those dead eyes. Dead as hell." I rolled my eyes at him. A lot of people say acidheads get this sorta faraway look sometimes. I don't know what that means. I look the same to me. I turned back to The Chechen.

"So am I running Black Plague?" The Chechen's eyes widened a little at my audacity. That happens a lot. I'd laugh if I wasn't serious about running the stuff – if it was expensive, I wanted in. Could always use a little extra cash. Hic was, of course, unreadable, taking another puff off the cigar. Someone should have probably told him he could take his sunglasses off at night. Especially inside. Idiot.

"You gonna eavesdrop and then ask me for favors?" asked The Chechen, raising a brow at me.

"Yep."

"I don't like your attitude, kid. You gotta learn your place. You ain't running this stuff until you can show me some respect." I blinked at him, keeping my disappointment from showing on my face.

"Whatever." I pocked the hundred and dropped my empty bag on the floor. We didn't keep the bags with us, ever. It was safer that way. It wasn't until I slipped out the door that I heard Hic speak again. He scoffed a little, and I imagined a little puff of smoke coming out of his nose.

"_Whatever._" Wow. He was mimicking me. Real mature.

**Four hours later**

Man, I couldn't tell if this was some majorly weak wash or if tripping was just getting dry. I mean I wasn't even doing it every day anymore. It _should_ have gotten fun again. God, nothing was ever like that first trip. I lay in my bed and stared out the window, letting in the fractals and what should have been complete chaos. I hadn't slept in almost two days. I should be monumentally messed up right now, but all I was seeing was some weird blurry bits and the occasional face in the patterns between tree branches. Booooring.

X

The price wasn't important to him. Burlap mask tucked into his blazer, Jonathan Crane stepped out of his car. He'd made an executive decision to leave his bright red Ferrari F12 Berlinetta several blocks away from the seedy little house in a garage. Wouldn't want anything to happen to the latest addition to his collection. Drug distribution seemed to have its perks. Working as a psychologist, he never would have made this kind of money.

It wasn't until he was on the right street that he pulled the mask over his face. Knocking politely, he waited for an answer.

"Ah. Scarecrow. You're right on time," said the Chechen, opening the door wide to let him in. "What are you offering me?"

"I'll give it to you for free. I'm looking for information right now." The Chechen narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

"Whaddaya mean free? Nothing's free," he said, crossing his arms. Even at his full stature, he didn't stand quite as tall as the man in the mask.

"I need to know…" He let a finger drag lazily on a dusty bureau in the corner. "Someone with tolerance. To psychedelics. Do you know anyone like that?" Despite himself, a chill ran down the Chechen's spine. Hic watched silently as a name popped into his mind.

"If I come up with someone you'll give me the stuff for free? How do I know this ain't a setup?" Jon scoffed.

"A cop wouldn't actually give you the drugs," he said, pulling several packets out of his jacket pocket. They were thin, each filled with a clear, shimmering liquid. "Pure research quality. Intravenous. Cleaner than crystal." He paused, shrugging. "I mean, if you really want to give me money for it…" The Chechen raised a brow at him. Just like that, he was cracked. God, these people were so easy.

"Alright; I'll come up with someone. Whaddaya want, a name?"

"Yes. A name." What the hell else would he want?

"Ah…" The Chechen ran a hand through his hair, thinking. Who did he know with a tolerance like that? Dealers didn't usually do the drugs. That just wasn't smart business.

"Sprite," Hic chimed in from across the room. He'd lit another cigar. It had been a long night, waiting for all the runners to come in. The Chechen snapped a finger, lighting up slightly.

"Ah, yeah. The brat. She's a runner. There you go." Jonathan blinked, annoyed at these peoples' affinities for nicknames.

"Does she have a last name? Or a real first name?"

"Sorry, buddy. We don't keep track of the details. Doesn't live too far, I don't think. Kinda cute; you know – kinda dirty blonde hair, short…" Chechen was eyeing the drugs greedily, hoping his information would be adequate. "Acidhead. I mean this chick's a _total_ acidhead." So she had high tolerance to LSD. Wonderful – she'd make a perfect candidate.

"What's her burner number?"

"Hic?" Hic rolled his eyes, trudging across the room to tap the number into Scarecrow's phone. Crane had invested in a burner as well, knowing how important it was to stay elusive. Satisfied, he turned back to the Chechen.

"Pleasure doing business with you. Next time, I'll charge." He walked out, satisfied.

O

It was like nine in the morning when my phone rang. Cool thing about acid – you don't sleep. I can be up all night and not even notice. When I glanced at the caller ID, though, I froze.

It was the cops. I knew that number – it was definitely the cops. At least, I thought I knew that number. The downtown area code. _No one_ had the burner's number but Chechen and Hic.

Heart racing, I flung the phone away. It landed loudly on the tile but it kept ringing and I was absolutely sure there was going to be some jerk in a blue suit at my door in seconds. I was just about to change, get a bag together and skip town when the little chime went off again. A voicemail? Since when do the police leave voicemails?

My hands shook. I felt weirdly compelled to listen – if I didn't, I might miss something important. It was a vague feeling, but acid tends to do that. Somehow, I managed to jab my thumb into the play button.

"_I hear you're getting a little sick of acid. Meet me at Bringham Park at midnight tonight. I've got something that'll take you places." _I sucked in a gasp, mind racing. Who the hell was this? There was no name. What kind of freak leaves a voicemail with no name? The cops? It had to be a setup. What if I called back? Pacing, I swear I could have broken my phone with my death grip. If it was a setup… where were Chechen and Hic? They'd get busted long before me.

I'd just seen them like an hour ago. It was an hour, right? It felt like an hour. Someone must have seen me leaving the house. _No._ I couldn't have a record already. I'd only been in the business for two years!

I think an entire century actually passed before I pressed some buttons, redialing the stranger's number. If it was a cop, I could at least get all "who are you, I'm not interested" on them. Right? It rang once before someone picked up.

"I had a feeling you'd call back. Hello, Sprite. This is Scarecrow." Huh. That one sounded pretty familiar. I frowned out the window as I tried to remember. In the back of my mind, it occurred to me that this guy sounded like he'd just woken up.

"How did you get this number?" That's always the first thing you ask when someone calls your burner.

"You might know a guy named Chechen." I didn't like this guy's attitude. Too casual. There was too much at stake for him to be so casual. Or was he just tired? Or both?

"So you're a cop."

"There's only one way for you to find out, isn't there?" I could basically hear a smirk on the other line.

"Look, I'm not interested in drugs." Better safe than sorry.

"How long has it been since your phone rang, Sprite?" I didn't say anything. That was a really, _really_ weird thing to ask. Why would he ask that? My mind raced. For once, I wished I could slow it down enough to figure out what the hell he meant.

"Why?"

"Just curious." I paused, thinking real hard. Nothing came up.

"Like an hour. Why?" He _laughed_. A shiver shook through me. What was this?!

"I called you four hours ago. It's noon. You're on acid right now." _Damn._ "Park. Midnight. You won't regret it." Once again, Sprite, Queen of Wit, didn't say a word. After that, he just hung up. Cool. I guess now I just had to figure out whether or not this was worth the risk…

X

Jon rolled over and tossed his phone to the opposite side of his bed, pulling the covers up over his face again. After his late night, the least he could allow himself was a chance to sleep in indefinitely. He just had to be up before midnight. Besides, he knew the girl would come. Addicts were the easiest to manipulate. Now, it was just a matter of hours before he could try out the updated batch of Fear Toxin –the Black Plague. Research awaited.


End file.
